The Haunting of Dr Watson
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Life was never going to be dull for Dr Watson with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes living at the bottom of the garden. But after one accident too many, Watson begins to wonder about Holmes' strange behaviour. Is he a ghost with a grudge? Or is a ghost from the past to blame? Supernatural goings-on in the sequel to 'The Case of the Dead Detective' - revised and rewritten!
1. Chapter 1

_Revised, rewritten and re-released – the sequel to 'The Case of the Dead Detective'._

_Now, where were we? Ah, yes, it's 1931, Sherlock Holmes died, returned as a ghost, got involved in a case that led to his banishment to the mortal world and is now living in Watson's summerhouse. And everyone is happy with the situation… or are they?_

_**The Haunting of Dr Watson**_

**Chapter One**

"The cost of a decent funeral has risen considerably," remarked Sherlock Holmes as we sat together in my study on a blustery afternoon in late September of 1931. "I remember a time when one could be sent off respectably for less than seven pounds. Today that sum would barely cover the cost of the coffin, let alone the expense of hearse and horses."

It was a curious turn of conversation for someone who had not five minutes ago drifted into the room complaining that his train had been delayed half an hour by an excess of fallen leaves on the line five miles out of London Bridge.

I use the word 'drifted' advisedly, for the Holmes I had known had never drifted anywhere in his life. In death, however, to say that he strode with decision and purpose did not seem apt for one who had entered through the closed French windows without ever opening them from the garden outside, bringing with him the chill of the grave and wearing an expression to match.

I did not, as anyone who has read their fair share of ghost stories might expect, throw my hands in the air in horror or pass into a dead faint. Indeed, when I saw him materialise and pass across the room, the distraction was not enough to draw my attention from my beleaguered accounts and the myriad of bills that seemed to grow every day.

Some might say it is not the done thing to feign indifference when presented with a supernatural occurrence; I hold, however, that there is something to be said for convention. After all, what does one say to an old friend who makes an unexpected appearance but good afternoon?

"Indeed it is," Holmes had replied in answer to my greeting. "And all the better for returning to familiar surroundings, no thanks to the efforts of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway. Add to that the not inconsiderable walk from the station to your residence, and I find that I am intolerably tardy."

One eccentricity I had noticed that Holmes had developed since his demise was that he persisted in behaving as though he was a creature of flesh and blood, still subject to the trivialities that beset our daily lives.

"I will never understand why you bother to take the train," I remarked. "I should have thought it was easier for you to materialise at your chosen destination."

With a sigh of muted frustration, he settled himself into the easy chair to the side of the grate. "Undeniably," he agreed. "However, I find it is a habit I cannot break. It costs me nothing, save time, and that I have to excess."

I did not press the point, for I understood his meaning all too well.

We had a somewhat unconventional arrangement, Holmes and I. Eighteen months ago, he had died, suddenly and at home. A year later, he had chosen to reappear to me in the form of a spectre, unable to rest easy while one of his old cases was under scrutiny and believing himself to have been murdered. In the investigation that had followed, we had met with old friends in the form of Inspector Lestrade and made new ones, namely his grandson, George, who had either been useful or had made a nuisance of himself, depending on the view one took of the affair. The case had ended with our upholding Holmes's original findings, setting right an old wrong, discovering that his death had been of natural causes and my getting myself shot.

It was not a pleasant business. I should not dwell on it at all, except that Holmes had intervened to save my life and in so doing had broken the first and foremost cardinal rule of his existence, being forbidden to interfere in the affairs of the living. As punishment, he had found himself earthbound, with all the inconveniences and none of the advantages of our modern world.

So it was that when he had found himself homeless and adrift, I had offered him a safe harbour in the old summerhouse that had sat neglected and ivy-clad in my garden. I had endeavoured to make it comfortable for him by placing at his disposal those items that had been around him in life, but his was a restless soul, in death as in life. Days would go by when I did not see him at all. Then, just as this afternoon, he would reappear and we would continue as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to be haunted by the ghost of his former friend and colleague.

Unconventional perhaps, but then Holmes had never scraped his knee before the altar of the mundane. For myself, I had accepted what could not be changed and tried not to appear too eccentric by appearing to talk to myself in the company of others. Such an arrangement would not be to everyone's taste; my conscience, however, would permit nothing less. I could no more have turned him from my door than ignore those peremptory summonses that interrupted my surgery and cost me more than patients in the financial sense when Holmes was in practice.

If it sat well with me, it was perhaps less so with Holmes. For a man who had steadfastly refuted the existence of ghosts from cradle to grave, to find himself 'reduced', as he put it, to such a state was a cause for indignation. To find then that his casual treatment of the rules would not be tolerated had been a further source of irritation. He did not speak of his condition or the terms of his punishment, except initially to state that his exile was likely to be a lengthy one, long to continue after I had passed beyond this realm of care.

Try as he might to behave as though that prospect was not of the slightest importance to him, I was only too aware when he turned to brooding on his future. His presence became sour and the atmosphere heavy, as though his miseries were leeching out of him, like dampness from a wall, and similarly leaving behind the unmistakeable traces of a former presence.

I have read about the effect in many a ghost tale, about rooms oppressive with spectral activity, where impressionable ladies have been overcome with a feeling of dread and loathing, and have thought it wildly improbable. To experience it for oneself, however, is quite another matter. The effect of his darker moods was to produce in me a profound sense of depression and the physical discomfort of a headache, such as the sort that began to throb at the base of my skull when he came into my study that afternoon.

That his conversation had now turned from the inadequacies of the railway companies to a financial consideration of the disposal of one's mortal remains confirmed my suspicions as to the turn of his thoughts.

"At least you travel for free," said I. "I'm not sure I can afford to travel, let alone die at the moment." I gestured to the growing pile of bills. "I fear my creditors will not let me escape their clutches so easily."

Holmes did not react to my poor attempt at humour. I tried a different tack.

"Why this sudden interest in funerals?" I asked.

"Because I have had cause to attend several in the past week," said he idly, brushing a trace of imaginary lint from the immaculate line of his trousers.

"Friends of yours?"

"No, they were strangers to me."

"Then why?" I asked, perplexed.

"I was looking for someone."

"At a funeral? Who on earth—"

"That statement is more perceptive than you realise," said he. "The individual I was seeking was not on earth, but in that transitive state between this world and the next." He hesitated for a fraction of second. "I need to communicate with my brother. Since I cannot speak to Mycroft directly in the spiritual realm, an intermediary was required to convey my message to him. I had to attend sixteen funerals before I found what I was looking for, and even then I am not entirely confident that my missive will be delivered."

I gave him a questioning look. Holmes delighted in filtering pieces of information about the afterlife to me as and when he saw fit, so that I was often taken aback by his description of what appeared to be as bureaucratic an organisation as any government department.

"It is considered the height of poor taste to attend one's funeral," he explained. "Nevertheless, some do. The person I was seeking, therefore, was a gentleman inured to considerations of vulgarity and the finer feelings of his relatives. Such a fellow I found in the unhappy shade of Mr Josiah Makepeace Jones. Avowedly parsimonious, he put in an appearance at the graveyard to see that the frugality he preached in life was being practised at his burial. I am sorry to say that he was disappointed."

Holmes chuckled at my expression.

"He was much offended by what he judged to be excessive expenditure. He begrudged the vicar his fee, berated his widow for wearing black silk and declared that, had he known his family would throw away good money after bad on floral tributes, he would have left his fortune to the cats' home."

"And this is the fellow you have entrusted to get word to your brother?"

"I had no other choice, Watson. Contrary to what you may have heard, the majority of ghosts have better things to do with their time than haunt the place of their burial. I could not have remained there much longer. I was making the gravedigger nervous."

"He could see you?"

"I cannot say for certain, except that every time he passed me, he kept whistling that infernal music hall ballad, _'I am the Ghost of Sherlock Holmes'_." He made what sounded like a grunt of annoyance. "Messrs Morton and Barry have much to answer for."

"Apt though, considering your circumstances."

"Ah, yes. My _circumstances_." There was an undercurrent in his voice, though whether bitterness or irony I could not tell. "That is not something I am likely to forget, with a vigilant friend to remind me."

"Holmes, I did not mean—"

"No, Watson, you never do. You have a way of saying things that does not necessarily work to your advantage. However," said he, releasing a long sigh, "I concede that I am not in the best of humours. My pigeon has flown home, and now I must await a response. Knowing how little Mycroft stirs himself these days, I could be waiting a very long time."

"Is it important?"

He glanced almost dismissively in my direction. "Do you imagine I would have endured the discomforts of a suburban graveyard for any other reason? Then you have your answer. I, however, do not have mine. I find myself pressed and can find no logical reason for it."

Even if I did not understand the nature of his problem, I could appreciate the reluctant appeal for help. I knew from oblique references Holmes had made to obscure tomes on psychic phenomena that he had been pursuing the problem of his exile. My natural instinct was to assume that he had met with an obstacle, one that needed his brother's greater insight. In that respect, I had little to offer but my support. I hoped Holmes knew by now he had that unconditionally, although it never hurt to remind him.

"May I be of assistance?"

He favoured me with a rueful smile. "Were that possible, old fellow. You cannot help, for I fear you are part and parcel of the problem. The solution lies here," said he with determination tap of his forefinger on the desk. "I know what must be done and yet…" He paused. "Yet I flinch from that final act. I am, as a certain of Shakespeare's dames put it, 'infirm of purpose'."

"That does not sound at all like you," I remarked.

"Which is why I need my brother's counsel, loath that I am to admit it. Well, I shall hear when he is good and ready. Whether I can afford to wait that long is another matter."

"Have you considered…" I hesitated, knowing Holmes's likely reaction to what I was about to suggest. "Consulting a medium?"

He gave me a look that seemed to have been pulled from the depths of an Arctic winter.

"If it is a matter of urgency, as you say, and you need to consult your brother—"

"Watson, you know my thoughts on the subject. Let us suppose, for one moment, that we find a genuine medium – and we know how rare such people are – how then would I begin to explain my situation? Is such a person to be trusted? There would not be a single newspaper that would not carry the story. I should be ridiculed."

"Very well then. I could go in your place."

He studied me with interest. "I thought you did not approve."

"I do not. This current fashion for table-turning as an after-dinner parlour game seems to me to invite trouble. If the dead wish to make contact, then they will find some means of doing so without banging on the furniture."

"As I did," Holmes said evenly.

"Precisely. Those are my objections. However if my attending a séance would be of assistance to you…"

"Then you would be ready to sacrifice your scruples. Admirable, Watson, but unnecessary. Besides which, Mycroft would never attend such a gathering. He has never been one for crowds and those who are able to 'lift the veil' between this world and the next invariably attract a following."

"Do you mean to say there is a sort of spiritual waiting list?" I asked incredulously.

Holmes nodded. "It works on the same principle as the queue in the Post Office and moves just as slowly. Some people have been waiting years for their opportunity. No, I fear I shall have to wait. Not that that prospect is entirely disagreeable." His gaze had passed over the torn mass of brown wrapping paper spilling from the waste bin. "The gramophone record I requested has arrived, I see. We shall have Wagner this afternoon."

"I'm afraid not. Mr Simmons says he doesn't get much demand for Wagner."

"Then what?"

"Elgar."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Elgar again? Simmons seems unable to supply anything else. Not the _Enigma Variations_, is it? We have already heard three different versions."

"No, Elgar's _Violin Concerto_. I thought it would be rather more to your taste."

"My taste this afternoon is for Wagner, and here we have Elgar. Still, it makes a pleasant change from Vaughn Williams and his interminable fantasias of 'Olde England'." He sighed and closed his eyes. "Your study compares unfavourably with the Albert Hall, but I dare say it will do the piece justice. And there are worse ways to pass the time."

"Actually, Holmes, now is not a good time."

He deigned to open his eyes. "It cannot be tonight. You have another of those tiresome Regimental Dinners to attend."

I had not told him of the engagement and was interested to learn how he had deduced that fact. "How did you know that?"

"You have been polishing your medals. The traces on the cloth you have disposed of are quite distinctive as is the smell of metal polish in this room. Had the maid been polishing the silver, she would have taken the cloth away with her. You, however, naturally drop it into the wastepaper basket as it is readily to hand. Since you only ever wear your medals at Regimental Dinners, I was led to the obvious conclusion."

"And you are correct. As for this afternoon, I am expecting someone. A journalist."

Holmes sat up in his chair. "A member of the Fourth Estate? What does he want?"

"An interview. The usual questions, I assume."

"Why now?"

"Why not?"

"Newspapers are not in the business of pandering to the egos of ageing authors. An item must be worthy of the space it occupies in the pages of the publication. I would be wary, my dear fellow. This journalist undoubtedly has an ulterior motive. To which newspaper is he attached?"

I sought and finally consulted his letter. "_The Daily Blast_."

"One of the newer titles," said he distastefully. "It claims to be the paper that 'rips the lid off', whatever that means. The question that should concern us is why they would want to rip your lid off, Watson."

There was a knock at the door and the maid entered to inform me that a Mr Joseph Johnson from _The Daily Blast_ had arrived for our appointment.

"I believe we are about to find out," I said to Holmes, tidying away my papers. "Are you going to stay?"

"You may need a witness in case you incriminate yourself."

"You will be the first person I call in my defence," I said in good humour.

I rose to welcome Mr Johnson, a thin, fresh-faced young man with the spatulate fingertips of one who habitually uses a typewriter and a grey smudge on the finger and thumb of his right-hand from the lead of a pencil. I fancied there was a crafty aspect to his eyes, which seemed entirely undeserved and attributable to Holmes's having filled my head with allegations of underhand motives. He appeared open and interested, and asked the usual questions about my writing, my association with Holmes and my present occupation. It was as pleasant an interview as any I had ever had. Then the conversation turned to questions of law and order.

"Of course, Mr Holmes, he had a rather more relaxed attitude to the law," said Johnson. When I hesitated, he glanced up at me and his eyes had lost their former affability. "You have documented as much in your writings, Doctor, how he would take the law into his own hands."

"Careful, Watson," Holmes warned.

"Mr Holmes had a great deal of respect for the law."

"As you say. But he let that Ryder fellow go free despite his involvement in the theft of the Blue Carbuncle."

"Well…"

"He conspired with the Duke of Holderness to conceal the crimes of his illegitimate son and then took a considerable sum from the Duke, seemingly for his silence."

"It wasn't like that at all," I protested.

"And allowed the murderers of both Sir Eustace Brackenstall and Charles Augustus Milverton to evade justice! Whatever their crimes, sir, any just man would argue that surely does not excuse their deaths." He paused for breath, triumphant. "Is that what you call a _respect_ for the law, Dr Watson?"

"Mr Johnson," I retaliated, "if you have come here with the express purpose of blackening the name and reputation of Mr Sherlock Holmes, then you have had a wasted journey."

He appeared unconcerned by this charge. "Others take a different view."

"Others?"

"Specifically, Professor Lionel Warwick and his client, Mrs Lillian Lyle. You appear taken aback, Dr Watson. Then let me enlighten you. Professor Warwick is a psychic investigator of some renown with several celebrated successes to his name. Have you heard of the poltergeist of Much Deeping? It made headlines around the world. Professor Warwick was instrumental in discovering the source of the disturbances in that case. Recently the Professor was consulted by Mrs Lyle over certain distressing incidents that had taken place at the Abbey Grange. You do remember that address, don't you, Doctor? Yes, I thought you might. It seems the investigation has turned up a rather interesting result. The Professor claims to have found the cause of the haunting, namely the spirit of Sir Eustace."

"Poppycock," I said.

"Not at all. He claims to have contacted the late Sir Eustace. According to what the spirit told him, it would appear he has a legitimate grievance. His death was not self-defence, as Captain Croker led you to believe, but cold-blooded murder in a scheme cooked up between the wife and her lover in order to secure the Brackenstall fortune for themselves. You and Mr Holmes were deceived, Doctor, and in so doing you allowed a vicious killer and his accomplice to escape the gallows. I understand the police are looking into the matter. Furthermore," he continued gleefully before I could speak in my defence, "Mrs Lyle, as the current owner of the Abbey Grange, intends to sue you for infesting her home with spirits. Now, Dr Watson, do you have any comment?"

**_Well, Holmes did warn him. Looks like its going to be a difficult case!_**

**_Onwards to Chapter Two!_**


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks, everyone. I didn't think anyone would remember this story! The good news is that it's going to get updated frequently and this time it is complete - so watch this space..._

_**The Haunting of Dr Watson**_

**Chapter Two**

"It is all very well for you to dismiss it out of hand, Holmes, but you are not the one they will sue!"

We were driving home after a dismal dinner with what remained of my old regiment. Every year the numbers became fewer, the faces older and the memories sharper. I attended more out of a sense of loyalty than any great desire to relive a past that came back to me more readily as the years progressed. And, as usual, I swore this would be my last. It was a resolution I never seemed able to keep.

This year it had been more trying than ever. A problem in the kitchen meant that the main course of venison was rarer than my palate could tolerate. Never before have I been presented with as unappetising a sight as a host of cold peas wallowing in a lake of warm blood. With the afternoon's events still playing on my mind, I fear I made for poor company that evening. It was a relief to all concerned when I excused myself early with the excuse of a long drive home.

I had not been conscious that Holmes had accompanied me, for there had been high words exchanged between us after the young journalist's departure. He had then vanished and, so I assumed, retreated to the summerhouse, there to brood in my absence. It came as something of a surprise, therefore, to find him waiting for me in the car. We needed to talk, he said. In effect, this meant his telling me that I was making much ado about nothing. He was not impressed by my reply.

"The case will never come to court," said he with considerable assurance. "You are worrying needlessly, my dear fellow."

"Am I?" I retorted. "It may have escaped your notice, Holmes, but I have a daughter and two grandchildren to support. I cannot afford to be sued. It's all very well for you to be so calm about it. You have nothing to lose."

"Except my reputation."

"And mine."

Holmes released a long breath, in the manner of one who was finding the whole business a strain upon his patience.

"Your error, Watson, is proceeding from the assumption that they can make good on these allegations. Do they propose to call the ghost of Sir Eustace to the stand? I do not see any other way they have of justifying their claims. On our side, we have the testimony of the accused pair. On theirs, they have hearsay, and from an unreliable source at that. Who do you think they will believe?"

"Us, I hope." I wanted to be convinced, but Holmes's assertions had not entirely dampened the spark of concern that had been lit that afternoon. "It would help if we had the Crokers to support our case."

Lights played on the hedge up ahead and I slowed the car in anticipation of the corner. As nervous a passenger in death as he had been life, I noticed Holmes grip the side of his seat as we rounded the bend and the headlights of the oncoming car flashed past us.

"Were they in a position to do so, I should never have allowed you to publish an account of the case," said he tightly. "Their deaths removed that stricture."

I could still remember with what sadness I had read of their demise. A pleasure cruiser touring the Scilly Isles had capsized in the May of 1904, claiming the lives of 12 on board, including the young pair whose futures we had decided that fateful day.

"No harm can come to them at least," Holmes mused. "Perhaps that is what they were counting on."

"The Crokers?"

"No, Watson, the originators of this scheme to discredit my original findings in the case. Who is there to deny these new allegations, save you? I am deceased and the Crokers are drowned. They have chosen their mark with care, it would appear."

"Has it occurred to you that there might be any truth in the allegations?"

"That the Crokers deliberately set out to murder Sir Eustace?" The lack of interest in his voice was eloquent as to his thoughts on that subject. "The possibility of a double bluff was something I had considered at the time. I dismissed it for the obvious reasons."

"Oh?"

Holmes sighed and his demeanour suggested that I should have been able to discern those reasons for myself.

"Let us say you are an enterprising young man who has devised a scheme of parting wealthy men from their fortunes by means of a pretty face, marriage and a swift death to follow the nuptials. A year is a long time to wait for such a plan to come to fruition, even longer when the chosen husband is a drunken bully. But we shall allow that they had patience and were content to wait. With a year at your disposal, would you not choose a quieter means for a man's death? Much could be achieved in those twelve months. The slow administration of poison and the onset of failing health, so that when the patient finally succumbs, no one is much surprised and the doctor signs the death certificate without a second thought. Why this very noisy affair involving burglars and bludgeoning? It would be tantamount to foolishness of the worst kind if they thought it would escape attention. No," said he decisively, "I am inclined to believe Captain Croker's story. I looked into the man's eyes; he spoke the truth, of that I am certain."

"Although you cannot prove it."

"Neither can Professor Warwick. Whatever the reason for these allegations, Watson, you may be sure that fidelity to the cause of justice is not part of it. There is some other motive at work here. In order to discover what that is, it shall be necessary for us to interview the Professor and his client, Mrs Lyle."

I smiled at his use of the plural. "Aren't you forgetting something? Warwick is what they euphemistically describe as a 'ghost hunter'. Do you want to place yourself in his sights? You would be a considerable prize."

Holmes snorted softly. "I no more expect Warwick to be able to see me than he alleges to be in contact with the spirit of Sir Eustace."

"What if he can? What if it Sir Eustace who wishes to make trouble for you? Have you considered that?"

He obliged me by sparing it a moment's thought before chuckling. "It would be one for the annals if it were true. A ghost haunted by a ghost – what a novel situation."

"He isn't haunting you. He's spreading untruths about you, which is worse."

"_If _he is," Holmes retorted, "which I doubt. In any case, there is nothing I can do about it."

"Is there not? I would have thought you were ideally placed to visit the Abbey Grange to see if Sir Eustace truly exists."

"I do believe you have become contrary in your old age, Watson," said he archly. "In one breath, you warn me against interfering. The next, you positively encourage me to engage the dead husband of the late Mrs Croker in witty repartee. Perhaps we could invite him to the summerhouse for tea, cakes and Elgar."

I sighed. "Holmes, really. I was only suggesting—"

"I have no wish to discuss anything with Sir Eustace Brackenstall, dead or alive. The man was a drunkard and a bully, and I stand by my original findings and decision in the case. Certainly we cannot let this challenge go unanswered, but neither you nor I are equal to the task. They would never speak to you and I have not the energy to spare."

Before I could query this puzzling remark, Holmes had already moved on.

"What you need, my dear fellow, is an impartial observer."

"Yes, that had crossed my mind."

A pair of golden discs lit up suddenly in the road ahead and instinctively I swerved to avoid the creature. Coming in the opposite direction was another car and horns blared as we missed each other by inches. In my mirror, I saw something scuttle away into the undergrowth. We would all live to fight another day. Whether Holmes would survive the ignominy of what I was about to suggest was another matter.

"I was considering hiring young George Lestrade to investigate on our behalf."

Holmes let out the groan of a soul in torment. "Then our cause is lost before it has begun! Settle out of court, Watson, and save yourself a good deal of time and money."

I had expected such a response. Holmes did not wholly approve of the younger Lestrade, especially since he had set his heart practising as a private detective, inspired to no small degree by my writings and my friend's exploits. He had even gone so far as to take rooms in Baker Street, in what had been the 'Empty House' of our younger days, otherwise known as Camden House. From what his grandfather told me, George was finding the life difficult, complicated by a lack of clients and a surfeit of bills. It seemed to me that a case would be most welcome to him at the present time.

"Well, I cannot meddle, Holmes. You have already said as much yourself. Unless you would have me consult another detective? There's always that Belgian fellow…"

"Certainly not." There had been the merest hint of indignation in his voice, as though the suggestion had offended his very principles. "Very well, let it be young George. And on your head be it. As you rightly say, I am not the one they will sue."

"Your confidence is overwhelming," I said good-naturedly. "I shall telephone George in the morning to make an appointment."

His mouth creased into a line of displeasure. "One might expect him to make an exception in your case, seeing as how you are—"

When he broke off sharply, I glanced across to see what had troubled him. To my considerable surprise, the passenger seat was empty. My spectral companion had vanished.

Depending on whom one asks, people will tell you that it is in the nature of ghosts to appear and disappear at will. It is not, however, in the nature of Sherlock Holmes to depart without the usual formalities. He was, in death, as in life, the very model of civility and gentility – qualities much derided in these liberal times. That he should depart so suddenly, therefore, and without warning suggested a disturbance in his world.

So great was my own alarm that I stopped the car by a gate and made a futile attempt to discover his whereabouts. I looked in the rear seats; he was not there. I glanced up and down the road, surmising that he had been thrown from the car at the last corner. I even went so far as to retrace our journey 50 yards back along the road to a hairpin bend.

In retrospect, it was a foolish notion that almost cost me my life.

As I rounded the corner, the lights of an oncoming car blinded me with sudden brilliance. A horn sounded, there was a rush of wind and noise, a turmoil of leaves and straw, and I found myself being propelled backwards into the yielding hedge, there to sprawl upon the bank amidst bramble and bracken and a broken bottle that tore a hole in my sleeve. When the shock had passed, I took a moment to collect my thoughts, found to my relief that I was physically undamaged and with effort extracted myself from my moist bed of autumn debris.

I made my way back to the car to find Holmes waiting for me. His attitude of impatience was not conducive to harmony considering the effort I had made on his behalf. Nor did he help his case with his terse recommendation that I should be more careful.

"I was looking for you," said I, taking my seat behind the wheel. "You vanished. What happened?"

"A moment's aberration, nothing more," he returned. "Really, you should know better than to wander these dark lanes in the middle of the night. Whatever possessed you?"

"I was concerned. And you haven't answered my question. Why did you disappear so suddenly? You aren't ill, are you?"

He laughed. "The typical response of the medical profession to any given situation that is perceived to be out of the ordinary! I defy you to define what you would classify as illness in my particular circumstances. I am ill, but I am not well either. I am dead. That is one condition that you cannot cure with your pills and potions."

I was not offended by this outburst, for Holmes's wit I should describe as caustic at the best of times. Nor was I deterred, knowing full well that he was trying to discourage my interest.

"Is something wrong?" I persisted.

"What could possibly be wrong?"

He had said it with enough apathy to convince me that the opposite was true. I have never found it easy to read my companion's expression, for, when the mood was on him, he could conjure his face into a mask of concealment that would have been the envy of gaming tables across the land. On this occasion, however, as I took in his pale face, cast into light and deep shade by the glow of the harvest moon, I fancied that I perceived a trace of bitterness in the pinched lines around his eyes.

I knew better than to press him, but for once, he proved unusually forthcoming.

"If you must know, I am disappointed in myself," said he, sighing. "I have been lacking in that want of discipline which has been the cornerstone of my existence. Or rather, I should say," he added, checking himself, "my _former_ existence. It will not do, Watson. It is intolerable."

"It could be worse," I said. "At least you don't have to spend the afterlife with your head under your arm or dragging a ball and chain behind you."

Holmes offered a weak smile at my attempt at humour. "I know of no other man in England who could find anything positive to say about my condition and yet here you are, stating what should be obvious, that we live in the best of all possible worlds. My fear, however, is that what you say is truer than you know. I find myself reminded of that line of Matthew Arnold's: 'We bear the burden and the heat of the long day, and wish 'twere done.'" A small chuckle escaped him. "Although I dare say it will come soon enough."

"For both of us."

"Yes." I would have been given worlds at that moment to know his thoughts, unreadable in those impenetrable sea-grey eyes, for I was conscious that more had passed between us than had been given voice. Then, the opportunity passed, and he was urging our homeward journey with all due haste. "For I shall be surprised if there is not a hoar frost by morning and you are not dressed for night sleeping under the stars. Home, Watson, and do take care as you pull out. I have noticed that you have a tendency to become reckless once behind the wheel. It is not a laudable virtue when one is confined within a ton of speeding metal."

We continued home in better spirits. Whatever had ailed him and caused his sudden disappearance had passed and Holmes discoursed genially about the habits and interests of the other guests who had gathered for the regimental dinner earlier. When he turned to the state of the kitchens and the unsavoury practices adopted by the head chef, it was evident to me why the meal had been a disaster.

"For a man obsessed with his personal appearance," Holmes was explaining as we turned into the drive of my house, "I was not at all surprised to find that he kept a comb in his back pocket whilst at work in the kitchens. Were you aware that three hairs were found in the soup? Ah, then you were fortunate. But here we are, home at last. It appears you have company, Watson."

I had already drawn that conclusion when I had seen the two unfamiliar motor cars parked in the drive. It was near midnight and the house was in darkness. My immediate thought was that my daughter, Margaret, had invited guests to dinner and then to stay the night. That she had taken the opportunity to entertain her friends in my absence was understandable, for under normal circumstances, I should not have returned until the morning. What was unusual was that she had not told me.

I have always been mindful that we shared the same roof by necessity rather than choice. I had taken her in after the untimely death of her husband had left her in her an untenable financial situation with a mortgage and two young children to support. During the time we lodged together, I had been careful not to intrude or to add the burden of a lonely widower on her shoulders. To find then that she had thought it necessary to conceal this private engagement from me caused me more sorrow than I cared to admit.

With that in mind, I had entered the house determined not to let my feelings show, but no amount of resolution could have prepared me for what I was to find.

There were five of them, including my daughter, seated around the dining table in the near darkness with their fingertips touching, forming an unbroken human chain. They had blinked in the sudden brightness when I turned on the light and then all was confusion. Two ladies of middling years, draped in pearls and with their hair dressed in that style of careless elegance beloved by the fashionable set, were busy complaining what a beastly nuisance it was to be disturbed when they were making such progress. Meanwhile, an dapper gentleman with silver-blond hair, steely eyes and a thin face was quick to console them that there would be another time.

My attention, however, was with my daughter and the impertinent fellow who had his arm consolingly around her shoulders.

"Father," said she. "We didn't expect you back so soon—"

"I can see that," I returned hotly. "Margaret, what is the meaning of this?"

She glanced at her companion. "We…"

"We were holding a séance, sir," spoke up the young man.

"I know what you were doing. Who the devil are you?"

"Rupert French." He held out a hand. When I did not reciprocate, he flushed. "Forgive me, Dr Watson, it was not my intention that we meet like this."

"Oh? Then how?"

"I had hoped…" He paused and swallowed. "To meet you formally. You see, I hope to marry your daughter."

**_Probably not the best way for a prospective son-in-law to introduce himself. As if Dr Watson didn't have enough to worry about…_**

**_Onwards to Chapter Three!_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Haunting of Dr Watson**_

**Chapter Three**

It was not the best of introductions for a gentleman who had aspirations to be my future son-in-law. I fear my reaction was what the young nowadays call 'hopelessly Victorian'. I did not cause a scene nor threaten to thrash the bounder for taking such liberties in my home. I did insist, however, that the evening was at an end.

The two ladies took it in bad humour and, after a good deal of pouting and protesting, were finally persuaded to leave. Their companion, the gentleman whom I took to be the medium, behaved with the utmost dignity and made no complaint, instead offering his apologies and suggesting that he drive the party home. I thought nothing more of it, but there was something in the way he paused on leaving, looking back as if to say something. I trusted it was my expression that dissuaded him from making an unwise comment, but just for a moment, his gaze moved from me to a fraction to my right where Holmes was standing. My heart leapt when it struck me that he might actually be able to see him. Then, with a smile, he ushered the grumbling ladies out into the night and they were gone.

That left my daughter and her young beau, who seemed determined not to leave.

"Time you were going too, Mr French," I said.

"Yes," he replied. "If you would first let me explain myself."

"Another time perhaps."

He rose several places in my estimation when he stood firm before me and shouldered his responsibility like a man. "This was not Margaret's idea," he declared. "It was mine."

"No, Rupert," my daughter interjected. "I agreed to it."

"At my suggestion, dearest," said the young fellow earnestly. "If there is blame here, I willingly accept it. I would only ask, sir, that you do not look too unfavourably on us, despite what you have seen this evening. I know you have your objections and rightly so, but I love Margaret and I want to marry her."

"What does that have to do with your conducting a séance in my house?"

His reply was not immediately forthcoming, for some natural reticence seemed to have caused the words to catch in his throat "We wanted to be sure that there would be no objections to our proposed engagement," said he finally.

"From the dead?" I queried. "I should have thought the living—"

"My concern was Dennis," said my daughter. "I loved him and I miss him. However, I love Rupert now and want to marry again. I would be happier in my mind if I know that we have Dennis' blessing. I thought if I could contact him, I would know for sure and then I could marry Rupert without any doubts."

To say I was taken aback would be to misrepresent my true feelings at that moment. Nor was it the time or place to discuss the matter. In my dismay for the liberty taken with my home by strangers and most of all by my daughter, who knew well my feelings on the subject and should have known better, I fear I would have been inclined to say more than was wise.

"It's late," I said instead. "Let us talk of this in the morning. Good night, Mr French."

This time I held the front door open for him to dispel any doubts of my intention. He saw wisdom and hastily gathered up his hat and coat, not before squeezing my daughter's hand and casting her a lingering look of affection. The look she reserved for me, however, was anything but, and before retiring to her room, her parting shot, like a knife to my heart, was the accusation that she had expected me, of all people, to understand.

The truth was that I did. Many years had passed after Mary's death before I had begun to countenance the possibility that I might remarry. At the time, there had been a good deal of guilt along with the grief that I, a qualified doctor, should have failed to recognise in his wife the symptoms of an illness I had seen in a hundred other patients. She had died and I had blamed myself. For the longest time, I was haunted by the conviction that she did too.

It had taken time to dull the ghost of the sick room and resurrect memories of happier days. It reminded me that hers had been the sweetest and most forgiving nature of any woman I had ever known. Only then could I begin to live less with the guilt of the dead than with the hope of the living.

As tragic as Mary's death had been in one so young, at least I had had the meagre comfort of knowing its cause. When Dennis had wandered one night into the path of an oncoming train, it left questions. Margaret's childhood sweetheart had returned from the War a broken man. He lingered as a shadow of his former self, untouched by the love of his wife or the birth of his son and daughter. His miseries were finally ended that night on the railway crossing, whether by accident or design we were destined never to know.

If it had been hard for me to accept, then it had been harder still for my daughter. I had known she had struggled with the uncertainty, but that she should go to such lengths was still deeply troubling. As head of the household, I had a responsibility to the souls within it, whether dead or alive. For we were not a house of four, but of six, with Holmes in the summerhouse and upstairs the ghost of a young girl named Maud, a friend of my grand-daughter, Alice, who had demonstrated a worrying talent in the field of communicating with the deceased.

It was for their sakes that I worried. But if I expected support from that quarter, I was sorely mistaken.

"I think your daughter is not unreasonable," said Holmes, when I shared my grievance with him in the privacy of my study.

"Nonsense," I replied sourly. "That she could do something so foolish is beyond belief."

He looked up from the newspaper he had been perusing and lay back in his chair. "On the contrary," he began, "let us examine the facts. Your daughter is a pragmatist, but shares your weakness for sentimentality. That she wishes to remarry is all to the good. You may relish your position as master of this bailiwick, Watson, but you are fated one day to suffer the common fate of all creatures of flesh and blood. Your daughter is merely preparing for that eventually. You should not condemn her for that."

"I do not condemn her," I grumbled. "I find her concern – _if _that is her concern – premature. I am perfectly healthy. Indeed, I am as fit as a flea."

Holmes smiled. "A strange expression, considering the short life span of that species. However, your physical well being does not come into it. The failure of one's health is not the only means of departure from this realm of tears. A good example would be how you nearly met your end on the road this evening."

"That was nothing."

"It was a near miss, Watson, and well you know it. But for an inch either way, you would be sitting on my side of the table. You are not as young as once you were, my dear fellow. Your reactions are dulled by age and over-indulgence."

I took umbrage at this unsubtle reference. True, my tailor had been obliged to let out my waistband in the past few years, but it was nothing a little abstinence would not cure.

"Then there is the question of your marital status," Holmes went on. "This is a most unhealthy county for the widowed. I do not blame your daughter for seeking to divest herself of that state with all due haste."

"How so?"

"In the past three months, no less than sixteen widows and five widowers have met their deaths unexpectedly within a twenty mile radius of this house. You had not noticed? Tut, Watson, having subscribed to the local rag, the least you could do is to read it. Had you done so, you would have seen the verdict of the inquest into the death by electrocution of Mrs Emily Brown of Chestnut Mead. The facts would suggest that her demise occurred when she attempted to plug an electrical appliance into the light fitting."

"A common enough accident, so I understand."

Holmes grimaced. "I dislike the word 'accident'. It conveys the impression that no one was to blame. Accidents do not simply occur. It requires the participation of one or more parties to bring events to pass. In this instance, we may cite the unwise activity of the lady in question. The coroner agreed with you on that point. Further, he suggested that the public be made more aware of the dangers of ignorance where electricity is concerned. A grim warning for all us, I daresay."

I knew Holmes well enough to question his motives for this seemingly irrelevant turn of the conversation. I always suspected that, as in the past, he knew more than he was prepared to tell me, until some distant point when such enlightenment was of little use save to elicit the appropriate response from me. Where my own survival was concerned, however, I did not want the moment of revelation to come when we were sharing the same cloud in the heavenly firmament.

"You speak as if from knowledge," I said. "If you know something, Holmes, tell me."

Behind his steepled fingers, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "I am not an oracle. Nor would I tell you even if I were privy to that information. Pity the man who knows the hour and time of his death. From that moment, he ceases to live and becomes either a hedonist or a fatalist. Imagine if all the world knew! We would sink into a state of anarchy, bereft of the usual restraints that guide our society. No, my dear fellow, I merely state what is an undeniable truth, that all that lives must one day die. You need look no further than me for proof. I do declare that in spite of my knowing, to find myself thus reduced was a considerable blow to my pride."

So saying, his expression sobered. "'_I have lost the immortal part of myself'_," he mused. "'_And what remains is bestial'_."

It seemed to me a strange observation by one who usually chose his literary allusions with greater care. "I believe in that instance Shakespeare was referring to one's reputation," I suggested.

"Indeed he was," said Holmes, stirring from his brooding. "And thereby hangs another tale. On the morrow you will engage young George to find out what he may about this Abbey Grange business and the restless ghost of Sir Eustace. For who else will rid us of this turbulent spirit?" His smile faded. "You had not forgotten, Watson?"

In the heat of the moment, I admitted that it had slipped from my mind.

"Well, it is to be expected," said he. "You are riled, naturally. When the old lion returns to find that a young cub has been prowling about his territory, he is liable to become pugnacious."

I did not care for his analogy, and if my tone was a trifle belligerent, I made no apology. "I should have thought this situation was of concern for you, seeing how it touches upon your current existence."

He snorted with disdain. "Come now, Watson, that fellow was no more psychic than you or me."

"Are you sure? I could swear that he saw you."

"He merely looked in my direction," said Holmes dismissively. "That is quite a different prospect having _seen_ me, I think you would agree. You fret too much, my old friend. No harm has come from this escapade. However, I should prefer that it is not repeated within these walls. It is liable to upset the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of this household. Even now, the child Maud is upstairs wailing. She believes you intend mischief and want rid of her. She will take no comfort from me. It is a pity Alice is staying with the Morrisons. She might have been able to reason with the girl."

I was glad for her absence. With her mother's current obsession, it was better that Alice's ability in that area remained a secret.

"As it is," Holmes continued, "we are in for a stormy night while the child rages. If you are disturbed by bumps and bangs in the night, I recommend you employ it to your advantage in advising your daughter of the inadvisability of her actions. As for you, old fellow, I suggest you get some rest. One does not need to be a seer to know that tomorrow will be a trying day."

"George isn't so bad," I said kindly. "At least he means well. I would rather him for a son-in-law than this preening fellow."

There was a moment's hesitation before he replied. "I daresay he represents less of a threat to your authority."

"That isn't what I meant at all." I caught Holmes studying me keenly. His silence compelled an answer. "Well, perhaps a little."

"The problem with old lions, Watson," said Holmes as he rose to his feet, "is that they become toothless and vulnerable to attack from younger males. If they do not know death at the hands of their rivals, then it is the loneliness of exile from the pride. Even if you dissuade your daughter from the affections of this suitor, know that another will take his place. Thus far, French has demonstrated admirable loyalty and courage. Other than that, and beyond the fact that he is a solicitor, plays golf and keeps a terrier, we know nothing about him. Let us find out more about this fine fellow upon which your daughter has set her sights. To idle away the small hours in unfounded conjecture is a waste of time better spent on more profitable activities. Away to your bed, my dear fellow, and let us see what tomorrow may bring."

_Does Dr Watson have cause to worry? Does Holmes know something he doesn't? And will young George Lestrade be willing to investigate the Abbey Grange?_

_Find out in Chapter Four!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**The Haunting of Dr Watson**_

**Chapter Four**

I tossed and turned for the better part of the night before drifting off at dawn. The consequence of this was that I awoke late, in time to hear the slamming of the front door as my daughter departed.

After breakfast, I telephoned George's office and, having met several times with an engaged line, saw that I should have to call upon him in person. Evidently he was there, as his busy line indicated, and I hoped not too preoccupied to look into the matter of the slanderous accusations made by the ghost of Sir Eustace Brackenstall.

Holmes was strangely absent – strangely, because given the nature of our visit, I should have expected him to have taken a greater interest – so I made the journey to London alone. Returning after an absence always offers the thrill of the unknown for the capital's landscape is in a constant state of evolution, like those alien worlds so beloved by the writers of fantasy stories. The traffic was heavier, and the smells and sights of the horse-populated streets of my youth had given way to the throb and roar of the motor engine. A single pony and trap, the conveyance of a country parson, was causing havoc in Piccadilly, as the beast, confused by horns and the press of people, bucked and reared in its traces. Horse-power of blood and sinew was now surely supplanted by another of petrol and metal.

As a consequence, I pulled up outside our former Baker Street lodgings a good hour later than I had anticipated. Here too was change. The paint was peeling on the window ledges and the step was littered with cigarette ash. It was a sight that in days past would have sent Mrs Hudson rushing for her bucket and mop. As if in answer to my thoughts, a daily woman emerged, a paisley scarf wrapped around the curlers in her hair and a limp cigarette drooping from her lips. Kitchen water sufficed to wash down the step, scattering oddments of green vegetation and potato peel onto the pavement as the brownish liquid wended its way towards the gutter. This vision in laddered stockings and bulging apron saw me looking and scowled, adding the sort of remark once confined to the lowest dockside taverns.

Then, to add to my woes, came the sound of authority, as a gruff, world-weary policeman cleared his throat and asked me what I thought I was doing.

"Parking, constable," said I. "I have business across the road."

"Oh, do you now?" he replied. "Well, you can't leave that vehicle here. It's blocking the traffic."

I am not beyond an appeal to sentiment when faced with the prospect of having to find alternative parking arrangements. "I used to live here, you know," I said jovially. "My name is Dr Watson."

The policeman looked unimpressed. "And I'm the Queen of Sheba. Hop it, granddad, before I give you a ticket."

I steered the motor back out into the traffic. Rudely stripped of my nostalgia, I recalled all the reasons why I had been so eager to leave London in the first place.

By the time I returned, having left the car at an inconvenient distant from my destination, it was to find Holmes waiting for me. His gaze was fixed on the upper windows of 221B and, if I was any judge, his thoughts were unfavourable.

"Observe the curtains," he muttered. "I should say they last saw soap and water in the reign of the old king. Mrs Hudson would turn in her grave if she was to see such a travesty. She had her faults, Watson, but we were never disgraced by dirty windows."

"Indeed, she was an exemplary landlady. And much tried," I added fondly.

"If by that remark you mean to examine my failings as a tenant, I should remind you that the rent was never late, nor did I scandalise the neighbourhood with my activities, as some lodgers are wont to do."

I chuckled. "That much is true. As for the rest…"

"Mrs Hudson never complained and nor did I. It was an arrangement that suited us both and one we were mutually sorry to end. However, she was old and I was…" He paused and a little of the fire died in his pale eyes. "Well, I daresay it does not matter now. Let us go up and beard young George Lestrade in his den. Lingering in this vicinity holds few attractions for me."

"Is that why you didn't accompany me this morning?"

"Was my presence necessary?"

"Your company would have been welcome."

He avoided my gaze. "Then you must excuse my absence. I had other business to attend to."

"Your brother?"

Holmes gave vent to an involuntary laugh. "Dear me, no. He's far too busy to answer a request from his beleaguered sibling. If I know Mycroft, he's probably organising the heavenly choirs into various sub-committees as we speak. Shall we go, Doctor? _Tempus fugit_, as we are oft reminded."

Another change that had come to our former haunts was that Camden House opposite had been given over to offices. Among the brass nameplates by the door was one bearing the proud inscription 'The Baker Street Detective Agency'. Modesty and his grandfather's mortification had prevented the younger Lestrade from using anything else, perhaps wisely considering that the agency had but one detective and he a loose-limbed young fellow given to reading cheap mystery fiction and championing Rin Tin Tin as his role model.

I had heard too that he was struggling, not surprisingly given the country's economic state. Still reeling from the King's magnanimous offer to reduce his budget for the duration of the crisis, the nation had awoken but a few days before to the news that sterling had been taken off the Gold Standard. There was talk too that MacDonald's all-party Coalition was failing and that a second General Election was imminent. Overall, George could not have chosen a worse time to set out his stall as an aspiring private detective.

Inside, the cobwebs of yesterday had been swept away and the walls gleamed with new paint. As I climbed the stairs to George's office, the stairs gave that familiar creak I remembered from the night of Holmes's return when we had lain in wait in expectation of the murderous intentions of the late Colonel Moran. Regard or misplaced sentiment had persuaded George that the only room in the building suited to his purpose was that we had used, commanding, as Holmes had so aptly described it, so excellent a view of our former picturesque pile. The door had been replaced since my last visit and it was on this half-timbered barrier with its gaudy gold inscription painted on the glass that I knocked and waited for admittance.

It took some little time to attract its inhabitant's attention. From inside came the tinny sound of the wireless, humming an interference-laden version of _Tiptoe through the Tulips_. I banged louder and was rewarded with the clatter that accompanies intense activity. The wireless was silenced, footsteps scurried in my general direction and the door was thrown open.

I saw the fleeting trace of disappointment that his visitor was not a prospective client eclipsed by the sparkling effusiveness of his welcome.

"Dr Watson!" cried George, shaking my hand with vigour. "Well, this is a surprise. Come in, come in."

The seat I was offered was hard on my old bones and lacked the ease which we had customarily displayed to Holmes's clients. The room too was devoid of character. Bare walls, bare wooden boards, several framed and questionable testimonials propped up beside the wireless, and a large plaster bust of my erstwhile friend on a pedestal before the window. Several of the panes were cracked and a sizeable portion had been lost from the back of the bust's head, evidence, so Holmes informed me, that there was a child in the neighbourhood in possession of a catapult.

"How are things?" I enquired.

"Well, Doctor, very well," said he, smiling and nodding too enthusiastically to be convincing. "I've had a few teething troubles, but it's to be expected."

"Oh? How so?"

He shrugged. "Oh, you know. The usual."

"What is the usual?" I pressed. "When Holmes was in practice, we never had two days the same."

"No, of course. But then Mr Holmes was a genius."

From his position by the window, I caught the beginnings of a smile on my friend's face.

"The worst of it is that the clients have unrealistic expectations," George continued. "They expect you to solve the case in a day."

"That might have something to do with your claim of 'speedy solutions', George." I had been perusing the stack of advertising flyers with their ambitious boast that lay on the desk. "'Satisfaction guaranteed' is equally unrealistic, don't you agree? Not even Holmes could please all of his clients all of the time."

"It wouldn't be so bad if I could please _some_ of them _some_ of the time." George pulled an unhappy face. "You have to give people confidence, Dr Watson. People won't come to you if you say you _might_ be able to solve the case."

"How very true," remarked Holmes.

"People have less confidence still if you fail to deliver," I reminded him. "When I was in practice, I found that people were more likely to gossip about a doctor's failures than his successes. It is the nature of the business."

The young man bridled. "Why, what have they been saying? I found Mrs O'Reilly's dog, like I said I would. It wasn't my fault that it got run over. If she had had it on a lead in the first place, it wouldn't have escaped and ran out in front of my motorcycle—"

"George, I have heard nothing," I said soothingly. "I am not here to question your methods. On the contrary, I wish to engage your services."

His honest face brightened. "You do? Well, of course, glad to help. Only I am rather busy at the moment…"

George delved into his drawer and produced his appointment book. From its pages fell a well-thumbed copy of the _Union Jack_ magazine with its cover detailing the exploits of that other Baker Street detective, Sexton Blake. George kicked the offending article under his desk and we both pretended we had never seen it.

"You are in luck, Watson." Holmes had wandered behind George and was reading over his shoulder. "The business of detection is decidedly slack at the moment. Indeed, he has nothing pressing until Christmas when I see he is to dine with his grandfather. Do you think our case will take that long?"

I ignored what passed for Holmes's sense of humour and concentrated on George.

"I did have something pressing," he lied, "but as it's you, Dr Watson, I'll make an exception."

"Generous of him," muttered Holmes.

"Now what's the problem?"

"You've seen today's paper."

I knew he had because a battered copy of _The Daily Blast_ was on his desk. George, however, frowned.

"I haven't read it properly. I always start with the personal columns, you see, just like Mr Holmes used to do."

He indicated the page. That he had studied it was evident, for several items had been circled in pencil.

"'Do you want to be taller?'," Holmes read out. "'Dr Elias's Cure for Ugly Noses'. Dear me, standards have fallen since our day, Watson."

I took the paper and flicked through the pages until I found the article in question under the bold headline 'Dr Watson denies miscarriage of justice'. As George read, his eyes grew ever larger until they bulged like golf balls under the untidy rough of his blond hair. Finally finished, he dropped the paper and gulped.

"Golly," said he.

"My sentiments exactly."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I do not intend to take this Professor Warwick's word for it that the Abbey Grange is haunted. What I need is proof that this is nothing more than an attempt to bolster his own reputation at the expense of mine."

"And mine," noted Holmes.

"Quite so."

George blinked. "You want me to prove he's a fraud?"

"Yes."

"What if he isn't?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I mean to say, I don't believe in ghosts, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes never did."

"Then you will have no problem in disproving Warwick's claim."

"But what…" He lowered his voice. "If there is a ghost?"

"Why are you whispering?"

George sat up and looked bewildered. "I don't know. I was taught not to speak ill of the dead."

"I fear in the case of Sir Eustace, there was nothing good to be said of him."

"Yes, I remember your story. He killed his wife's dog."

"And worse, besides."

"What's worse than killing a defenceless animal?"

"George," I interrupted. "Will you take the case?" I thought of my finances and the stack of bills awaiting me at home. That, weighed against the likely court costs if it ever went before a judge, made up my mind as to a suitable payment for his services. "I'll pay you twenty pounds."

"In advance?"

"Certainly, if that would help."

He nodded eagerly. "It would. I've got the rent due, you see." He watched as I drew the notes from my wallet. "You'll want to speak to this Professor Warwick, Dr Watson?"

"That was my intention."

"Only it says in the article that he's giving a lecture to the Ghost Club this evening in South Kensington. We might catch him off his guard if we meet him there."

"A capital idea," said Holmes. "There is hope for the boy, after all."

"Very well. What time shall I call to collect you?"

George's expression dropped. "Have you still got that old car, sir?"

The car in question had finally stuttered to a halt after many years faithful service and had earned a well-deserved retirement in my garage. The last time I had called upon George's assistance, he had been greatly embarrassed by the vehicle and it came as no surprise to me that his memories of it were not as fond as mine. When I assured him that I was in possession of a newer model, his smile returned.

"What is it?" he asked, hurrying to the window. "Another Ford? I can't see it."

"No, I had to park around the corner. There was a policeman—"

"Is he still out there?" Nearly knocking the bust from its stand, he ran across the room and threw a towel over the wireless. He saw me looking and blushed. "He keeps asking if I've got a licence for it, you see."

I eyed him with concern. "George, exactly how bad are things?"

His face fell and he subsided into his chair with a forlorn sigh.

"Pretty bad. To tell you the truth, sir, I haven't had a client in weeks. I've had to take a job delivering door to door in the mornings to make ends meet. I can't tell my grandfather; he took out a mortgage on his house to get me started. I'm already behind in my repayments and his savings won't cover it. This has to work, Dr Watson. He could lose his home if we can't repay the loan."

The thought of the elderly Lestrade being turned out in the streets was too hard to contemplate. I asked George how much was owed. He mentioned a sum beyond even my resources. Nor was I sure that he would accept help if it was offered. What was needed was a successful case, otherwise we might all find ourselves homeless.

"Well, George," said I. "We can but try."

_Poor George. He means well, but is he a hopeless case? And what will Professor Warwick have to say for himself?_

_Find out in Chapter Five!_


End file.
